the paper kind of got lost this morning,
Fred thinks, picking it up from the counter and folding it until it looks like a thick paperback book (but part of the headline accuses him even so: FISHERMAN STILL AT L ).
Maybe the paper just kind of, I don’t know, migrated straight to the old garbage can beside the house.
Yes, good idea. Because Judy has been strange lately, and Wendell Green’s pulsating stories about the Fisherman are not helping (
Thighs and torso bitten,
Fred thinks as he glides through the early-morning-quiet house toward the door,
and while you’re at it, waiter, have them cut me a nice rare chunk of butt
). She reads the press accounts obsessively, making no comment, but Fred doesn’t like the way her eyes jump around, or some of the other tics she’s picked up: the obsessive touching of her tongue to her upper lip, for instance . . . and sometimes, this in the last two or three days, he has seen her tongue reach all the way up and pet at her philtrum just below her nose, a feat he would have thought impossible if he had not seen it again last night, during the local news. She goes to bed earlier and earlier, and sometimes she talks in her sleep—strange, slurry words that don’t sound like English. Sometimes when Fred speaks to her, she doesn’t respond, simply stares off into space, eyes wide, lips moving slightly, hands kneading together (cuts and scratches have begun to show up on the backs of them, even though she keeps her nails cropped sensibly short).
Ty has noticed his mother’s encroaching oddities, too. On Saturday, while father and son were having lunch together—Judy was upstairs taking one of her long naps, another new wrinkle—the boy suddenly asked, right out of a blue clear sky, “What’s wrong with Mom?”
“Ty, nothing’s wrong with—”
“There
is
! Tommy Erbter says she’s a Coke short of a Happy Meal these days.”
And had he almost reached across the tomato soup and toasted-cheese sandwiches and clouted his son? His only child? Good old Ty, who was nothing but concerned? God help him, he had.
Outside the door, at the head of the concrete path leading down to the street, Fred begins to jog slowly in place, taking deep breath after deep breath, depositing the oxygen he will soon withdraw. It is usually the best part of his day (assuming he and Judy don’t make love, that is, and lately there has been precious little of that). He likes the feeling—the
knowledge—
that his path might be the beginning of the road to anywhere, that he could start out here in the Libertyville section of French Landing and wind up in New York . . . San Francisco . . . Bombay . . . the mountain passes of Nepal. Every step outside one’s own door invites the world (perhaps even the universe), and this is something Fred Marshall intuitively understands. He sells John Deere tractors and Case cultivators, yes, all
right,
already, but he is not devoid of imagination. When he and Judy were students at UW-Madison, their first dates were at the coffeehouse just off campus, an espresso-jazz-and-poetry haven called the Chocolate Watchband. It would not be entirely unfair to say that they had fallen in love to the sound of angry drunks declaiming the works of Allen Ginsberg and Gary Snyder into the Chocolate Watchband’s cheap but exquisitely loud sound system.
Fred draws one more deep breath and begins to run. Down Robin Hood Lane to Maid Marian Way, where he gives Deke Purvis a wave. Deke, in his robe and slippers, is just picking Wendell Green’s daily dose of doom up off his own stoop. Then he wheels onto Avalon Street, picking it up a little now, showing his heels to the morning.
He cannot outrun his worries, however.
Judy, Judy, Judy,
he thinks in the voice of Cary Grant (a little joke that has long since worn thin with the love of his life).
There is the gibberish when she sleeps. There’s the way her eyes dart hither and yon. And let’s not forget the time (just three days ago)
Fred thinks, picking it up from the counter and folding it until it looks like a thick paperback book (but part of the headline accuses him even so: FISHERMAN STILL AT L ).
Maybe the paper just kind of, I don’t know, migrated straight to the old garbage can beside the house.
Yes, good idea. Because Judy has been strange lately, and Wendell Green’s pulsating stories about the Fisherman are not helping (
Thighs and torso bitten,
Fred thinks as he glides through the early-morning-quiet house toward the door,
and while you’re at it, waiter, have them cut me a nice rare chunk of butt
). She reads the press accounts obsessively, making no comment, but Fred doesn’t like the way her eyes jump around, or some of the other tics she’s picked up: the obsessive touching of her tongue to her upper lip, for instance . . . and sometimes, this in the last two or three days, he has seen her tongue reach all the way up and pet at her philtrum just below her nose, a feat he would have thought impossible if he had not seen it again last night, during the local news. She goes to bed earlier and earlier, and sometimes she talks in her sleep—strange, slurry words that don’t sound like English. Sometimes when Fred speaks to her, she doesn’t respond, simply stares off into space, eyes wide, lips moving slightly, hands kneading together (cuts and scratches have begun to show up on the backs of them, even though she keeps her nails cropped sensibly short).
Ty has noticed his mother’s encroaching oddities, too. On Saturday, while father and son were having lunch together—Judy was upstairs taking one of her long naps, another new wrinkle—the boy suddenly asked, right out of a blue clear sky, “What’s wrong with Mom?”
“Ty, nothing’s wrong with—”
“There
is
! Tommy Erbter says she’s a Coke short of a Happy Meal these days.”
And had he almost reached across the tomato soup and toasted-cheese sandwiches and clouted his son? His only child? Good old Ty, who was nothing but concerned? God help him, he had.
Outside the door, at the head of the concrete path leading down to the street, Fred begins to jog slowly in place, taking deep breath after deep breath, depositing the oxygen he will soon withdraw. It is usually the best part of his day (assuming he and Judy don’t make love, that is, and lately there has been precious little of that). He likes the feeling—the
knowledge—
that his path might be the beginning of the road to anywhere, that he could start out here in the Libertyville section of French Landing and wind up in New York . . . San Francisco . . . Bombay . . . the mountain passes of Nepal. Every step outside one’s own door invites the world (perhaps even the universe), and this is something Fred Marshall intuitively understands. He sells John Deere tractors and Case cultivators, yes, all
right,
already, but he is not devoid of imagination. When he and Judy were students at UW-Madison, their first dates were at the coffeehouse just off campus, an espresso-jazz-and-poetry haven called the Chocolate Watchband. It would not be entirely unfair to say that they had fallen in love to the sound of angry drunks declaiming the works of Allen Ginsberg and Gary Snyder into the Chocolate Watchband’s cheap but exquisitely loud sound system.
Fred draws one more deep breath and begins to run. Down Robin Hood Lane to Maid Marian Way, where he gives Deke Purvis a wave. Deke, in his robe and slippers, is just picking Wendell Green’s daily dose of doom up off his own stoop. Then he wheels onto Avalon Street, picking it up a little now, showing his heels to the morning.
He cannot outrun his worries, however.
Judy, Judy, Judy,
he thinks in the voice of Cary Grant (a little joke that has long since worn thin with the love of his life).
There is the gibberish when she sleeps. There’s the way her eyes dart hither and yon. And let’s not forget the time (just three days ago)
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